


Evolution

by thealphagate_archivist



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: M/M, Romance, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-25
Updated: 2006-03-25
Packaged: 2019-02-02 08:56:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12723501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thealphagate_archivist/pseuds/thealphagate_archivist
Summary: see part one





	Evolution

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the archivists: this story was originally archived at [The Alpha Gate](https://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Alpha_Gate), a Stargate SG-1 archive, which began migration to the AO3 in 2017 when its hosting software, eFiction, was no longer receiving support. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2017. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are this creator and it hasn't transferred to your AO3 account, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Alpha Gate collection profile](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/thealphagate).

1.Keys

Often, I wonder, who is this stranger  
come into the season of my unfolding  
gently reaching toward me  
with a silently mouthed hello.

I've traced the contours of your body with my fingers  
I know the taste and smell of you.  
And when we make love, I feel your language  
and watch the layers of your defenses become thinner.  
Sometimes so fragile that I could break through them  
completely  
with a word  
or just the slight pressure of my kiss.

I choose not to.  
My wish is not to conquer, but to share.  
The key to you remains always with you.  
Any door you open  
I shall gladly walk through.  
As for myself...  
my locks grow weaker.  
\---barbara j. garshman

 

Daniel's quiet again tonight, too quiet; and as much as I want to press right up into his personal space and satisfy my own restless, vaguely worried curiosity as to the reason behind his silence, I hold myself back and manage--though not without a fierce inner struggle with myself first--to honor his unspoken need for distance and some measure of solitude here within the confines of my house.

Of OUR house, I want to correct myself, for in every way that matters this place truly is Daniel's home now, just as much as it's mine. But Daniel is forever cautioning me that it just isn't safe yet for us to become too free and easy with the language of joint ownership of anything between us; and he seems especially concerned with the danger of some careless slip of the lip on either his part or mine that might reveal too much of our relationship to a world that's still woefully disinclined to accept or understand what we have together. I know he's right to be ultra cautious; on a purely professional level, my ass in particular would be grass should our relationship become common knowledge, so you'd think that even more than Daniel, I would be the one always fretting about keeping the exact nature of our partnership quiet.

But the truth is, I'm getting fed up with all the lies and the sneaking around and the ridiculous subterfuge we have to play out daily just to cover our asses and keep suspicion's narrowed gaze from fastening onto us in an unguarded moment. Not that I have any raging desire to suddenly start groping Daniel's ass or sucking face with him right there in the hallowed halls of the SGC for everyone to witness; but neither do I appreciate having to live a lie, giving the mistaken impression through my silence that I am one of those who share in the prevalent view that same sex relationships are somehow perverted and wrong and a danger to the whole fabric of society.

"Stop brooding about you-know-what, Jack," Daniel says quietly now from one end of the couch, a note of resigned patience sounding in his voice as he flicks a myopic gaze at me over the top of his glasses. "It's only going to tick you off more and more as the night goes on, till you finally end up storming around the house ranting and raving and sucking down way too many beers while you invent colorfully violent new ways to take out all those 'homophobic assholes' running the military. You do realize, I hope, that it isn't ALWAYS about our relationship when I get a bit...distracted...like I've been tonight."

"I didn't say it was about...that, Daniel," I begin rather huffily, my expression a mix of defensiveness and chagrined mulishness as I fumble my half-full bottle of beer down onto the coffee table's cluttered surface. At least he's speaking to me again, I think to myself in silent relief as Daniel fixes his steady blue gaze on my face. I mean, I can understand his needing some space to himself once in awhile, but the kind of easy, contemplative silence Daniel exudes when he's merely communing with his own thoughts is a far cry from the tense, distracted heaviness that's hung like a pall in the air around both of us these past two nights.

"But since you've so conveniently brought the whole 'relationship' subject up, I think you're lying out your ass right now," I continue stubbornly, answering Daniel's questioning frown with a frustrated grimace of my own. "You only get this quiet and pensive when you're remembering certain painful things from your past or wallowing in guilt over the notion that our relationship has neared a dangerous stage approaching something like permanence and might therefore place me--at some not-so-future date--at considerable risk of being court-martialed and stripped of my rank and privileges and all that crap."

Daniel's mouth twists into a sneer of instinctive denial at my tirade, but before he can tell me that I'm being a bit egocentric and what about HIS reputation and career, I'm moving in on him and rather creakily settling myself on my haunches before him, forcefully interposing my body between his reluctantly parted legs as my fingers dig into his knees.

"And we both know that this--this BROODING thing you're doing right now--is about much more than any worries concerning our jobs and how two studly but amazingly NON-straight men such as ourselves might survive financially should we be given the old heave-ho from the SGC. Do you think that I haven't noticed lately how...self-protective...you've become again?" As Daniel lifts one eloquent eyebrow in silent mystification, I sigh and begin tracing soft, absent circles on his right kneecap with my index finger.

"You're feeling threatened by me," I inform him, a grim little smile tugging at the frozen edges of my mouth as Daniel begins to shake his head in mute denial, his eyes darkening with some private ire as he scowls back at me and opens his mouth to frame an indignant reply. But it's MY turn now, MY chance to make some things clear between us; so I merely dig my fingers warningly into the flesh around his knees and give him my best commanding glare, thinking wryly to myself as I do so that this kind of behavior is exactly what I'm about to preach against in regards to our relationship. That's me, the master of contradiction, I think to myself as I fasten my gaze on Daniel's astoundingly clear blue eyes and force myself to relax my death grip on his poor, abused kneecaps.

"Look, Daniel; I know I can be a bit...pushy...sometimes, not just at work or when proclaiming my lordship over the tv remote, but in more private matters, as well," I sigh resignedly, encouraged by the reluctant glint of humor I spy in Daniel's bemused gaze as he settles down on the couch and graciously condescends to allow me to speak my piece. "I don't MEAN to crowd you or overwhelm you; I don't mean to make you feel pressured about any aspect of our relationship. But I know that, despite my best intentions, I do have a tendency to--to--"

"Be bossy and rigid and pedantic, expecting everyone around you to snap to for the big, bad Colonel?" Daniel cuts in drily, the sardonic note of amusement in his voice backed by an underlying seriousness that lets me know only too well that I really have hit a nerve with him.

"I have a tendency to be a bit 'intense'--that's the word I was looking for," I reply stiffly, the slight sting of Daniel's descriptive words dulled by the guilty shadow I spy flitting suddenly far back in his too-casual gaze. "And I HAVE been making you feel...stressed...lately. Haven't I?" For a split second I can read the instant, knee-jerk denial surfacing hotly on Daniel's tongue, but with one warning squeeze of my hands on his knees, he suddenly deflates and levels a startlingly straightforward gaze on my frowning face.

"It isn't really you, Jack, I want you to know that," he begins quietly, his voice calm and steady despite the almost imperceptible tremor that runs down his strong thighs as our eyes lock. "I mean, I know and accept how you are; hell, it's even part of why I love you, because that attitude IS you, is just part of who you are. And you know good and damned well that I'm no shrinking violet; if you push too hard, I'll let you know it, in no uncertain terms. And I might very well push back. Neither one of us is ever going to play the 'wife' role in this relationship. But at the same time, I guess lately I just sometimes feel...well, I just feel..."

"God, Daniel, just spit it out!" I growl, some dark fear wrenching painfully in my chest at the brief flash of unguarded misery I surprise in my lover's troubled gaze. "Whatever it is that's bugging you--whatever I need to do or STOP doing to make you feel okay with us again--well, dammit, I can't make a move till you tell me what's going on in your head. I've tried to give you space, but you know it makes me crazy when we just walk on eggshells around each other and never fucking address any of the issues between us. I don't need a freaking thesis on whatever's bothering you right now; just give it to me straight."

"Jack O'Neill, the great communicator; who'd have thunk it?" Daniel smirks wryly now, and I growl at him again, warningly, so that he gives a resigned sigh and nods almost wearily, dropping all pretense at making light of whatever unsettled business this is that he's been guarding against me for close to two days now.

"Okay, sorry; that was uncalled for," he admits in a low voice, lifting a hand to rub it distractedly down one side of his face. "I mean, look who's talking here--for all my facility with languages, I can be a close-mouthed bastard when it comes to speaking certain personal truths about myself and my feelings. You've helped me see that, Jack, helped me to be more...open...about things. At least with you. And I'd like to think that in return I've done the same for you."

"We DO talk more now, Daniel," I agree, my gaze softening on his as he extends an affectionate hand to give my hair an absent little pat. "We've successfully transcended the monosyllabic 'What's?' and the cavemanlike grunts that constituted the first couple of years of our friendship; but if tonight is any judge, we've still got a ways to go in the communication department. So give, already; what is this whole tense silence vibe that you've given off for the past few nights?"

"I...uh...just feel the need lately...well, you see, there's this opportunity I heard about...Okay. I want to go away, Jack," Daniel blurts out now, the soft cadence of his voice sounding on the air in jarring opposition to the nasty jolt of unpleasant surprise that ripples down my spine at his words. "Just for a weekend," he hastens to add as what must certainly pass for a flash of pure panic flares helplessly in my eyes, filling me with embarrassed anger for responding like this. Jesus, I think disgustedly to myself as Daniel eyes me with wary concern; you'd think we'd never been apart in the year and few months since we became...well, US. Shit, why am I suddenly flipping out just because he wants to get the hell away from me for a few days? Almost dazedly I realize that he's begun speaking again, words rushing from his mouth in a nervous jumble as he leans forward a bit and plucks distractedly at invisible lint on my shirt.

"Well, okay, a LONG weekend, but there's this archaeological symposium in New York, and I know how you feel about those things and about my 'geeky fellow rock-grokkers,' as you so affectionately label my friends...so I would rather not drag you along and make you suffer, I mean I KNOW we still have our own separate and distinct sets of friends and we agreed that that's healthy and we SHOULD keep our own interests and hobbies alive..." He's babbling rapidly, an uncertain frown marring the smooth surface of his forehead; and I want to tell him that it's okay, that he's a grown, professional man who doesn't have to justify his decisions to me, for God's sake...But some ugly, jealous little part of me wants to stand up and growl, oh yes he most certainly does, what the hell does he MEAN, dumping me like yesterday's news to go gallivanting off to New York with that astigmatic little weasel Perkins and Flora of the flaming red hair and her clutching, clinging hands always plucking at MY archaeologist like he's some sort of prized ancient pot she can't wait to fondle in some dark, musty storeroom somewhere...oh, and that asshole, what was his name?--Diego! Yeah, that's it, Diego the Desperate, that adenoidal son of a bitch with the courtly Old World manner and those smoldering eyes, smoldering at MY partner, his eyes fastened on Daniel's mouth the whole time he's talking, just as if he'd love nothing more than to climb right down Daniel's tonsils and do a little archaelogical surveying of his own...

"Jack...Jack, goddammit, see, that's exactly what I mean, you're getting that glazed, homicidal, 'I hate any archaeologist who isn't named Daniel Jackson' glitter in your eyes again; and I am SICK of feeling torn in two directions whenever opportunities like this come up cause I just want to go off and wallow happily for a bit in the marvels of my chosen profession, but at the same time I know as sure as I go, I'll end up in some damned, canned-air hotel room wide awake and empty and desperate in the wee hours of the night, stubbornly insisting I'm GLAD I came and boy Jack needs to CHILL a little, already, but at the same time, Jack, I'll be missing you so damned much I know I'll wonder what the hell I was thinking to let you out of my sight for five minutes, when I COULD be home fucking you senseless--"

"Just go, Daniel," I interrupt him now, very quietly; all the ugly, possessive jealousy has left me just as suddenly as it came at the look of hopeless, almost angry love shining in Daniel's eyes, and the tone of subdued acceptance--even encouragement--that sounds in my voice stops Daniel's haphazard diarrhea of the mouth as instantly and effectively as if I'd just slapped a gag on him.

"You're right, I'm being a selfish idiot, a prize putz, a jerk extraordinaire," I sigh, running a rueful hand through the short strands of my graying hair. "I know you love me, Daniel; I don't doubt that, and you know I trust you. Even if I don't trust any of your lust-ridden cronies as far as I can throw them," I add grudgingly as Daniel gives me a slow, heart-stoppingly gorgeous smile, one filled with a heady mix of lust and a strangely shy brand of love that takes my breath away and makes me realize that I have to be the luckiest son of a bitch in the universe to have this man look at me like this, with everything he is--everything he feels--shining in his eyes so openly,his trust an incomparable gift that humbles me beyond measure and fills my own eyes with a sudden rush of hot moisture.

"So go to New York; break some hearts, fondle some pottery, see some sights. And by God, you'd BETTER be alone in that hotel bed every night, hard as steel and moaning my name in hopeless, abjectly unfulfilled lust," I growl as I yank him into my arms, the startled woof! of forcefully expelled air from his lungs sounding loud in our ears as I hungrily devour his mouth with my own.

"So...you're saying you respect the fact that I am my own man, the captain of my own soul, the arbiter of my own fate and destiny," Daniel gasps weakly when we finally come up for air some unknown measure of time later. "I'm...er...glad we both agree on this particular issue; and of course, it goes without saying that anytime YOU want to go off to the wilds of Minnesota or Montana or wherever the hell it is alone to fish or maybe take one of your tight-assed, square-headed military buds along to hunt or relive those old glory days, I certainly won't demur or stand in your way--"

"Shut up, Daniel; if you're planning on scheduling your little trip for this next weekend, then that only gives us nine days to have all the hot, sweaty sex we can before you go. Which means you're wasting valuable time, here." A downright evil leer sneaks across my face as Daniel gapes blankly at me for one long breath; then I'm suddenly attacked by a blur of hard, horny archaeologist slamming into me, the both of us tumbling to the floor in a bruising tangle of limbs and desperate, ravenous lips and tongues as Daniel's slender, dexterous fingers relieve me of 90% of my clothing in a minute flat.

"Just don't forget...your house key...when you come back," I hear myself gasping distantly, dimly, as Daniel latches onto my right nipple with his sharp teeth and gives it an unbearably arousing tug. "I mean, in case I'm not able to pick you up when you get in, I mean I might be at work or off in the woods somewhere making goo-goo eyes at some bad-ass former platoon buddy..."

"Keep that up, and you're going to see what it's like to REALLY get the Daniel Jackson silent treatment," Daniel mutters roughly as he divests me of my underwear and socks and impatiently slaps my fumbling hands away from his own half-dressed body. As I smirk smugly at him, he rips his way out of his pants and pullover shirt and flings his glasses carelessly behind him, his naked blue gaze blazing down at me with such heated, feral lust that I have to bite down hard on my lower lip to hold in the ragged groan of helpless need that rushes up from my groin and threatens to make my brain (not to mention other parts of me) implode before he's even really begun to have his wicked way with me.

"And this trip will be good for us, all because of the homecoming sex afterwards," Daniel growls as he presses his full, unbelievably sexy weight on top of me and begins to drive me completely out of my mind with the slow, slick gliding of his heated body up and down mine. "And I'm touched, Jack, really touched that you understand my needs, that you can respect that I still have outside interests, that you trust me cause you know I'll always come back to you, oh God, Jack, I'm never going to leave you, never giving this up..."

And as I silence my life mate's maddening burst of verbosity by the simple expedient of french kissing him till he's nothing more than a quivering, sex-crazed beast writhing erotically atop me, I force down that last, niggling little frisson of loneliness and insecurity that still insists on tormenting me at the idea of being separated from Daniel for even three days and vow to myself that I'll do anything and everything to show him that I will never twist and misuse his love for me to hold him here against his will or force him into giving more of himself than he's willing to give. What he's shared with me already to this point--this unbelievable loving between us, this fire, this heat both sexual and emotional that blazes up from a warm, contented glow to red-hot conflagration before dying down again to satisfied comfort...this is real, this is true. This is love, and it makes us both free.

I can do this, I think as I grasp Daniel by the arms and adroitly flip him till he's lying beneath me, his kiss-swollen lips and passion-darkened eyes drawing me down and down into the very center of him, into paradise. I can let him go to New York or anywhere else in the world, knowing that even when we're apart physically, nothing can come between us. It's all about trust and respect, I think dazedly as Daniel slides one sinfully skillful hand down between our bodies to grasp the iron-hard length of my cock in his fingers, wringing a strangled curse of tortured lust from my raw throat. But if that fucker Diego so much as lays a finger on my man, I'll knock his frigging head off, I think spitefully and am suddenly, immeasurably cheered by the thought.

* * *

2\. Pleasure

I've dimmed the lights low,  
smoothed your eyelids still,

humming as I work, touching you  
until time fades, falls away.

Like a slow blues, I glide--  
hands over nape and neck,

strokes easy, never sudden,  
a fingertip rhythm beckoning

pleasure out from under, bringing  
peace to tired shoulders, blades

surrendering to pressure,  
touch upon touch, my palms

tracing muscles, ribs, belly,  
the demure pubic triangle.

I don't stop my hands  
from touching every region:

assiduous calves, toes,  
tentative penis cradled

by my palm, shy testicles  
coaxed by my tongue. Never

thought healing could be  
this easy, bodies freed

from scrutiny, that tyranny  
suspended for the pleasure

we gain in simplest movement:  
hands cradling breasts,

your lips pursed around  
a single stiffening nipple.  
\---allison joseph

 

"Oh, God, yeah...there, right there, like that...no, wait, over a little, a little more...YESS, oh God that's GOOD!..."

I can't help but smile at the level of sheer, hedonistic bliss in Jack's voice as I dig my fingers--just so--into that stubborn little kink below his left shoulder blade and begin to work the soreness out, Jack's low, almost sexual moans beneath my hands reassuring me that I'm doing it right.

"What were you thinking, anyway, tackling those drunken farmers like that?" I scold him mildly now, masking the note of amused exasperation in my voice behind the firm, stroking pressure of my fingers on Jack's appreciative flesh. "They were just trying to show me their...er...implements."

"Implements, my ass," Jack snorts disbelievingly now and turns his head somewhat stiffly to glare up at me, his brown eyes flashing irate sparks as I press my thumb into a section of particularly taut musculature near his spine.

"Ouch, watch that! C'mon, Daniel, you and I both know that the only tool those assholes wanted to show you was the one between their legs," he continues acerbically, then hisses and gasps out, "Gahh, are you trying to KILL me?" as I lean my weight more fully into my work, attacking that pesky, spasming shoulder muscle of his with perhaps a bit more enthusiasm than Jack was expecting.

"Sorry; but I've almost got it, if you'd just relax and sit still--" I mutter distractedly, lifting one hand to his jaw to turn his head back to his original, eyes-forward position. My other hand abandons its forceful massaging to begin a slow, sensual caress up and down the defensively curled bow of Jack's spine, and my oh-so-fierce Air Force Colonel grits out a half-hearted epithet as he's torn between retaining his stubborn irascibility or giving in to the rush of pleasurable endorphins my gentled touch has begun to arouse along his stressed-out nerve endings.

"They didn't mean any harm, Jack," I murmur now, my voice dropping to a lower, more soothing register as his body almost reluctantly becomes loose and pliant beneath my hands. "As you so astutely pointed out, they WERE drunk. Just drunk and friendly and very proud of the new plough they'd all pooled their money together to buy; they just wanted to show it to me, to give me a little demonstration. It was my own fault I tripped over the harness trace in the dark and almost fell on my face. Edon and Harmul were just trying to keep me on my feet--"

"They were groping you; at least that's how it looked to me," Jack mumbles truculently now, his voice slurring a bit as he relaxes bonelessly and allows his head to slump forward between his shoulders, his chin almost resting on his chest as he luxuriates in the slow, steady rhythm my hands have fallen into as they work their way up toward the nape of his neck.

"More like I was groping THEM, trying to stay upright," I chuckle softly, and Jack gives a low, husky groan of mingled pain and pleasure as I begin to rub the stiffness out of his neck. "I think I almost dislocated Edon's shoulder, tugging on him so frantically. Then YOU had to pull your 'all-star tackle' routine and knock ALL of us into the dirt; God, I shudder now to think what would have happened if we'd landed just one foot further to the left. Lucky for you we narrowly missed turning that plough into just so much kindling wood; if that had happened, I have a feeling that SG-1 would have been the first things plowed under in that field. As it was, Edon and the others had themselves a good laugh over the whole incident, convinced that you were just drunk and so wildly enthused about their new plough that you couldn't control yourself," I surmise drily.

"Well, all's well that ends well," Jack huffs righteously now in that half-smug, half-snarky tone that quite often has me grinding my teeth in annoyed frustration. But tonight I'm feeling strangely loose and magnanimous, my heart warmed and softened with love for the man slumped so trustingly beneath my hands. Without conscious thought I find myself leaning forward to press a chaste kiss to the crown of his head, my hands resting gently on either side of his neck as my fingers trail down across the front of his throat and find his pulse there, beating slow and steady beneath his skin.

"You know, you've really got to stop with the whole 'defending my virtue' rigamarole, Jack," I murmur chidingly as he tilts his head back against my bare chest, the surprisingly soft strands of his hair raising pleasurable goose bumps on the skin between my nipples. "Shall we review one more time?" I continue smoothly, ignoring his longsuffering sigh. "I'm a big boy now, if you recall, and you've taught me well how to look out for myself offworld. And I wasn't exactly sending out a distress signal in that field, Jack; I wasn't in any danger from those men. And I think, behind that knee-jerk reaction you displayed, you knew that all along. So...do you want to tell me why you went postal for no discernible reason, wrenching your shoulder in the process and forcing the rest of us to do some fancy footwork to make the natives think it was just drunken exuberance on your part?"

For a long, tense moment Jack refuses to answer, and his body goes stiff and stubborn under my hands as he tries to resist my silent compulsion for him to open up and come clean with me. I've known him too long to let this exterior show of sulkiness faze me, and since he feels so good--so strong and solid and warm beneath my touch--I find myself continuing my massage of his bruised, weary body. I try to be stern with myself, try to remind myself that we're having a serious discussion here and this isn't the time or place to be suddenly thinking about just how much I want to circle around this chair Jack's sitting in, drop to my knees before his partially clad form and press hungry, fervent kisses to his chest and belly and then lower, gloriously lower...

"Sometimes...Sometimes you just don't seem to SEE certain things, Daniel," Jack mutters suddenly now, his tone a mix of defensive anger and disgruntled apology as he lifts a hand from his lap and settles it over my hand where it rests at the juncture of his neck and left shoulder.

"Not the 'clueless geek' lecture again, I hope," I begin, injecting a measure of weary patience into my voice. "Didn't we move past all that after the first...oh, six or eight weeks of working together? Old news, Jack. Or is this the newer, 'clueless sex magnet' version of me you've got going?" But before I can really get started haranguing him, Jack slides out from beneath my grip on his shoulders and shifts sideways in the chair to level disturbingly intent eyes on my sardonic return gaze.

"When YOU say clueless, it makes me feel like some big, stupid bully who's picking on you and demoralizing your self-esteem," he sighs wearily, raising his hand to cup my jaw in a gesture that's both tender and possessive at once. "But the way I mean 'clueless'--in reference to you, anyway--is anything but that. You're the sort of 'clueless' that comes about because you're just too damned brilliant sometimes for your own good, Daniel. I mean, you never really think of yourself as a...well, as a 'sensual' kind of guy...at least, not unless and until you're behind closed doors with a significant other and a large enough measure of privacy to make you relax that subtle but definite inner guard you maintain around yourself. And since YOU don't habitually see yourself as the devastatingly attractive hunk of man you really are, you quite naturally forget that everyone else around you DOES see it--and with better than 20/20 vision sometimes, to boot."

I can feel myself tensing up at Jack's words, helpless to control the sudden tightening of my lips into that prim, defiant moue that almost always sparks an answering glitter of mingled anger and apology in Jack's eyes when he catches me twisting my mouth that way. But this time the expression in his gaze is mainly one of pleading, as though the oft-repeated mantra he's spewing at me now is somehow MORE vital this time around, fraught with a level of importance much too deep for me to ignore any longer. The dark, troubled stare he's leveling on me frames a mute request for me to really listen this time, to pay actual heed to the things he's trying to tell me; and as he lifts his hand to trace one callused, tentative thumb around the tense outline of my mouth, I sigh in weary resignation and give him a rather brusque nod of capitulation. Fine; okay. Let's do this, let's talk the whole, tiresome business out, once and for all this time.

"So you're saying that I'm too trusting, that I'm somehow...naive," I murmur quietly, a bit peeved that my voice isn't as steady as I would like. Dammit, I really don't want to sound this upset about a topic we've hashed over--apparently without clear resolution--numerous times before this current discussion. "But let me add that the point you're so clumsily trying to make here--the one about me being blissfully and woefully unaware of my own sexual attractiveness--is just plain silly. God, Jack, it's not like any of the rest of you strut around giving off 'Whoa, I am such a sexual dynamo' vibe to the natives, either, you know. Can you imagine how ludicrous that would be, if we all swaggered around absorbedly fixated on the level of sexual magnetism we emit to those around us?"

"You're taking this to sublimely ridiculous extremes, as usual, Daniel," Jack huffs at me in reply, his eyes fairly crackling now with frustrated annoyance. "Hell, no, I'm not saying or implying that we should all--yourself included, of course--march around with sex-o-meters strapped around our wrists, constantly calculating the exact amount of pheremones we might be giving off. Jesus, give me a break! And stop trying to muddy the waters, here; you know damned good and well that the POINT I have been trying to make is merely this..."

His bare chest heaving a bit with the force of his emotions, Jack glares belligerently at me and thrusts his index finger sharply into the center of my chest, his gaze locking with mine and refusing to turn me loose. With one eyebrow raised in sardonic invitation, I merely purse my lips and wait for him to further enlighten me with his wisdom, tamping down the tiny frisson of guilt I feel at the knowledge that he really is perturbed about this whole business. Forget the fact that his acerbically possessive over-protectiveness has absolutely NO place in our professional lives together and that he KNOWS it drives me INSANE with aggravation when he pulls that caveman bullshit on a mission; however clumsily he might try to disguise it as a team leader's legitimate concern for a fellow team member's safety, both he and I (and probably Sam and Teal'c, as well) know that his near-compulsive hovering over me at times is really nothing more than some neo-primitive impulse to preserve my safety AND my virtue because he sees me as somehow being HIS property, HIS investment, both emotionally and sexually. And thinking about Jack thinking of me in that way fills me with such a welter of confused and conflicting emotions that I find myself too often practicing a form of passive avoidance when the subject comes up, lying to myself that Jack's behavior really is nothing more than professional duty and responsibility, only raised to the nth degree.

It's bewildering, really, that an experienced vet of his caliber would ever even allow that small, fiercely reptilian portion of his brain to take control of his powers of reason at such times, I think to myself now with a mix of despair and vague scientific curiosity; Jack is the consummate professional soldier, he knows his business and the people he works with, and in his right mind he knows good and well that I really can handle myself without his help about 99% of the time on these missions. So why the hell does he keep DOING this, working himself up into a near frenzy of worry and anger and near-paranoid suspicion every so often on off-world missions?

Before I can pose the exasperated question aloud, he catches my bemused gaze with his own stubborn stare and gives my chest another peremptory jab prior to enlightening me with whatever point it is that dances so elusively about us here in the tense quiet of his living room.

"My POINT tonight was merely--IS merely--that in this case, on that particular world, those drunk, jolly, basically friendly and good-natured men WERE 'checking you out', as the vernacular goes. And while two of them almost certainly had no intention of taking things any further than a bit of wistful ogling behind your back, that other one--Fergul or whatever the hell his name was--had some really dark, ugly nastiness brewing in his head along with all the moonshine he'd sucked down earlier. I SAW him, Daniel, saw how he was crowding up behind you and the others, pushing in closer, readying himself to, to--"

"To what, Jack? Cop a feel in the dark, maybe reach out and pinch my ass as I bent over to look at the plough?" I begin brusquely; but I am suddenly and unaccountably shaken by the unequivocal certainty of his tone, and something old and deep and knowing far back in Jack's somber gaze sends tendrils of chilled, breathless unease coiling up from my gut to twine insidiously around my heart. God, he really did see something...BAD...in Fergul's eyes, in his demeanor, I think numbly to myself; he KNEW. And me...well, I was--as he's so often accused me of being in the past--clueless. The look in Jack's eyes now hints of thoughts, of twisted fantasies bordering on the unspeakable, that he'd discerned lurking behind Fergul's outwardly jovial manner toward me as we'd stumbled about in that field under the waxing moonlight; and suddenly I'm feeling dizzy and sick and chilled to the marrow by the dark knowledge glittering up at me from Jack's eyes. God, if he hadn't been there to watch my six, to steer me away from Fergul and the others with his usual laconic efficiency while I--dolt that I am--indignantly demanded that he stop mother-henning me and give me and my new friends some SPACE, for pity's sake...

"You CAN handle yourself just fine on your own, Daniel," Jack is murmuring now in a low, intense tone as he slides both hands up the sides of my body in a loose embrace that's meant both to soothe and to distract me from the ugly visions suddenly surging to the forefront of my brain. "Most of the time," he amends gruffly as I gape down at him in dismayed disbelief. And I suppose I must have an expression of disgusted, in-denial-still mutiny darkening my face along with the flush of chagrined guilt heating my cheeks, because before I can say a word Jack is pressing his face fervently into my belly and muttering in harsh, muffled tones against my quivering flesh:

"I HATED the way he looked at you, with such soulless lust, with such sick profanity glittering in his eyes; I wanted to hurt him, Daniel, wanted to hurt him for all the ones HE'S undoubtedly hurt and brutalized in the past, wanted to hurt him most of all for DARING to look at you that way, for daring to imagine doing...things...to you, whatever the fuck those things were. I don't even want to KNOW what he saw inside his mind when he looked at you, Daniel; just the shadow of his thoughts was enough to make me sick. And I'm sorry if I man-handled you out of there and acted like some grunting, hamfisted caveman; but he was BAD, Daniel. He was just...so bad. And I couldn't take it, I couldn't let him be anywhere NEAR you any longer..."

"It's all right, Jack," I murmur in reply, my voice so low I'm not certain I've even spoken the words aloud. "It's okay. I...understand now. I know why you reacted the way you did; and I'm sorry, Jack, so sorry for not remembering how scarily perceptive you are about people sometimes."

"Only sometimes?" Jack cuts in, tilting his head back to grimace wryly up at me; the expression in his eyes is one of mingled relief and humor, and I'm suddenly so overwhelmed with the rush of love I feel for him that all the breath freezes in my lungs, leaving me dizzy and speechless and incapable of doing anything more than sliding my hands to either side of his face, my thumbs hungrily stroking across his cheekbones as his quietly intense gaze melds with mine.

"I want to touch you now," I hear myself whisper into the near reverent silence that has fallen between us, my hands following the path my words are forging. "God, Jack, I just want to touch you, taste you, take you into me, feel you all around me, all through me..." And as Jack's eyes drift shut on the drunken groan of need my words have aroused in him, I lean in close, closer, till my lips are lightly brushing over his face, quietly worshipping every inch of skin from the crown of his forehead to the lightly stubbled tip of his chin.

"Daniel..." he sighs once, his body briefly tensing in taut anticipation before going lax, hard muscles transforming to a beautiful, liquid bonelessness in the chair as he gives himself over to me, completely trusting. And as I slide around to drop to my knees in front of him, my hands gently pressing his compliant thighs apart so that I can fit my body into the space between his legs, he tilts his head against the back of the chair and gazes down at me through slitted, lust-heavy eyes, his tongue dipping out with maddeningly erotic slowness to lick at his full lower lip. Taste me, he offers silently, his chest rising and falling, rising and falling with a rhythmic, reassuring regularity. Touch me, take me. And he feels so good, so indescribably perfect beneath my hands as I trail tormenting fingers up and down the inside of his thighs, leaning forward just enough to exhale my own heated, yearning breath onto the flat plane of his belly; so good that I never want to stop, never want to leave this musky, Jack-scented haven here between his legs.

"Beautiful," I murmur as my mouth presses softly, gratefully against the vibrant flesh surrounding his navel, my lips moving in tandem with my fingers as they grasp the towel knotted loosely around his waist and fumble the thick cotton material away from the shadowed juncture between his thighs. "I want to give you so much pleasure, Jack, want to hear you moan and swear and growl out my name; I want to experience every part of you, catalog the taste and texture of every millimeter of your body."

"Lucky for me we've got the whole weekend off, then," Jack murmurs above me, his voice slurring slightly with a mixture of humor and steadily thickening desire. "God, Daniel, you don't know what it does to me, seeing you like this, feeling your hands on me, your mouth..." His tone roughening with need, Jack shifts restlessly on the chair and gives a frustrated groan as I dig my fingers into the hard ridges of muscle on the outside of his thighs, holding him still as my eyes flare a silent reproach. "Daniel..." he begs softly, the melting amber of his gaze flowing onto me, into me, like the most decadently warm and delicious caress; and I can't bring myself to torment him any longer, indeed it's become exquisite torture for me as well to have him this close, this willing, and yet to hold myself back, some part of me reveling in both the scent and the feel of the slick sheen of hungry perspiration rising on both his skin and mine.

"I can smell you, smell how much you want me," I whisper hoarsely now as my fingers glide into the dark, wiry-haired mystery of delights nestled at his groin; with infinite care I cup him in my palm, the perspective of my hungry gaze narrowing onto the evidence of his firming arousal, my focused vision shutting out everything else but this, my eyes and fingers working together to relay messages of breathless admiration and growing need first to my brain and then to every hot, aching cell of my body.

"Do you want me, Jack?" I whisper as I breathe my way down from his belly to the nest of musk-laden curls trembling in anticipation just above his erection. "Do you like this?" And as I take one velvety, lightly furred testicular globe into my mouth, my fingers simultaneously circling and gliding up and down the smooth, pulsing length of him, Jack utters an abruptly barked expletive and fists both hands in my hair, his ass lifting instinctively off the chair seat as he tries to press himself more firmly into my mouth, my hands. In retaliation I somewhat regretfully release him from my mouth, my tongue swirling the aftertaste of him to every hungry portion of my palate; and as Jack gives a grunt of agonized disappointment, I smile against those lovely, springy curls now tickling my nose and give his cock a comforting little squeeze.

"Shh...shh. Don't rush it, we have all night...all weekend," I chastise him as I keep one hand loosely fisted around his straining heat and move back up his body with my mouth, my teeth fastening gently onto his left nipple and tugging once, warningly, as he slides hot, restless hands up and down my back, urging me closer, begging me with the increasingly rapid hitches of his breathing to take him, to release him from this slow, exquisite torture.

"Jesus, Daniel, please!..." he grits out, his eyes dark and feral and filled with such fierce emotion as he looks at me that I am momentarily frozen, overcome with awe and struck dumb by the amalgam of love and need burning through me from those incredible orbs. I know that very, very few people have ever been this close to the actual, unshielded soul of Jack O'Neill, that I am being blessed now with a gift beyond compare, with something so deep and fragile and yet so paradoxically, impossibly strong that to stare too long into the exposed heart of him is to risk the complete surrender and capitulation of my own soul. But it's already too late to pull away, to save myself from the turbulent, inescapable whirlpool that has sucked me down and into the center of the storm that is his spirit, that contains his unique energy; I am completely lost, I have given myself body, mind, and soul to the wild power that is everything Jack is. And as I fall down, down into the vortex of his hungry, love-darkened eyes, I find myself at last coming to rest within the calm eye of the tempest brewing on every side of me; there he waits for me, solid and silvered, with my name vibrating in his throat, syllables slipping from his lips like a prayer, a benediction of love and rightness. His gaze on me tells me I am home, and as our mouths meet now in the warm glow of the lamps burning in the living room around us, we discover wholeness and healing from the darkness always waiting out beyond the light. But it cannot touch us here, here it has no place. Jack's hands are the universe, his breathless moans the encryption of all that is sacred and holy; and as we meld together, mouth to mouth and skin to skin, we are free, soaring. Together.

* * *

3\. The Surge

Maybe it is the shyness of the pride  
he has when he puts my hand down to feel  
the hardness of his cock I hadn't tried

by any conscious gesture to raise,  
yet it rose for my soft presence in the bed:  
there was nothing I did to earn its praise

but be alive next to it. Maybe it is  
the softness of want beneath his delight  
at his body going on without his...

his will, really, his instructions...that  
surges inside me as a sort of surrender  
to the fact that I am, that I was made, that

there is nothing I need to do to please but be.  
To do nothing but be, and thus be wanted:  
So, this is love. Look what happened, he says as he

watches my hand draw out what it did not raise,  
purpled in sleep. The surge inside me must  
come from inside me, where the world lies,

just as the prick stiffened to amaze us  
came from a rising inside him. The blessing  
we feel is knowing that out there is nothing.  
The world inside us has come to praise us.  
\---molly peacock

 

Daniel is beautiful, inside and out; and for all the times that I hold myself back from any external displays of emotion toward him--for all the times I refrain from revealing just how much his presence in my life means to me--there is always some deep, hungry part of me that wants nothing more than to spend the rest of my life lost inside him, curled comfortably within the strongly beating heart that is the essence of his energy, his soul. It amazes me anew with each rising sun that he can love me like he does, that even with my snarkiness and bouts of ill humor and stubborn selfishness and pride, Daniel still accepts me without reservation, still allows me to touch him and to invade almost every aspect of his life with my pushy, demanding ways and the endless supply of neediness I can't even attempt to hide from his perceptive inner gaze.

And this...this is so incredible to me, the way that even still half asleep he can want me, can NEED me, this much in return, so much so that he pulls me from my own deep slumber to gift me with the evidence of his love; as his hand reaches drowsily under cover of darkness to find and place my own hand over the warm, quiescent center of his virility, his fingers guiding mine to circle and then lightly stroke the sleepy but increasingly interested length of him, Daniel sighs and moans the both of us to full wakefulness as he shifts toward me on the mattress, his legs obligingly falling open and to either side as he surrenders himself to me, his body letting me know in no uncertain terms that it finds my touch, my presence here, very good indeed. I marvel as I stroke him--my own arousal burgeoning in sympathy with his--that I have done nothing to earn this, that it is the mere fact that he loves me for nothing more than being myself, that has him hardening now and pressing so insistently against me, his eyes burning into mine with his own quickening need.

"Mmm...love that, Jack, love how you touch me, love waking up to your scent, your weight, your hands and your mouth...Feel, Jack, feel what you do to me, how you make me want you..." His voice impossibly sensual with its hint of early-morning raspiness, Daniel rolls onto his side now to face me, closing his thighs securely on my hand and trapping it there, my fingers still grasping his steadily stiffening erection as he smiles a lazy, devastatingly sexy smile at me in the dimness of his bedroom. Somehow being here in HIS bed, surrounded by HIS things, makes being with him like this all the more intense, lending a deeper and much more complex flavor to the slow-burning attraction between us. Here I am cast adrift, unmoored and untethered from all the familiar accoutrements that help me move so easily through the dance when it's taking place in MY space, amidst MY things; here Daniel is in charge, here HIS essence, HIS energy, surrounds and sustains us. And I realize with a sense of awed humility that I gave up almost all control with my entrance across his threshold last night, that I am in HIS world now, a circumstance which constitutes an almost startling change from the usual routine of him always molding himself into MY space, acclimating himself to MY things, MY rhythms. Always before it has made me more than a little nervous and unsettled to spend the night here, surrounded by such an intensity of 'Danielness' that it leaves me lost and disoriented and terrified of feeling so MUCH for him, of being so lost in the heady rush of everything he is.

But now, lying in his bed with his cock throbbing hungrily in my hand, his morning breath a bit sour but far from objectionable as he snuggles in to press a slow, drowsy kiss to my lips, I am suddenly almost overcome with the dizzying force of my love and gratitude for him; I feel quietly honored, my soul somehow cleansed and redeemed of all its weary darkness, as Daniel slides the tangled mess of sheets and blanket away from our bodies and reaches down to clasp warm, dry fingers over my hand on his cock, stilling the lazy rhythm I've begun as his eyes burn into mine with sultry intensity.

"Look, Jack; look at your hand on me, look at what you've done," he hisses softly, and as if hypnotized into compliance by the sound of his voice, I catch myself lowering my stunned gaze from his eyes to the shadowy outline of my hand beneath his, to the intricately intertwined pattern of my fingers straining hungrily, wantonly, around the solid, iron-hard length of his cock. The sight of our hands together like that, cradling and seducing the blatant evidence of his arousal, of his lust and love for me, has me suddenly and unexpectedly so hard and ready myself that I can't contain the low, anguished groan of need that erupts from my throat.

"Now you've done it," I growl at him, pushing him almost roughly onto his back as I slide my body hungrily over his, pressing my raging hard-on tightly, so tightly, against his as I revel in the clutch and grab and pinprick pain of his strong fingers digging hungrily into my back and exult in the sensation of his legs snaking up to wrap themselves like an immovable vise around my waist. As he simultaneously pulls my mouth down to cover his, his tongue voraciously dueling with mine, a white-hot blast of light seems to fill my head, blinding me to everything that isn't Daniel, that isn't us, here together in his bed.

"Fuck me, Jack; want you to fuck me so good, so hard and deep," he's panting beneath me, his blue eyes almost black with lust in the predawn gloom. "I want it, Jack, want to feel you, want you to pound me through the fucking mattress, now, do it NOW, oh Christ!..."

And even as my own lust takes me over, superceding any and all other modes of coherent thought, some small, amazed part of me looks out through my eyes at the man writhing under me and crying out in ecstasy at our joining and experiences again the inexpressible sense of wonder and grace that Daniel's love has instilled so firmly within my soul. We should sleep over at his place more often, I think dimly as the fire builds and builds within my spine, within my cock and balls till it fills every crack and crevice of my brain and then everything explodes, and I am swept away on the endless, turbulent sea of loving Daniel back with the same fierce, unapologetic emotion he has bestowed on me.

* * *

4\. You Touch Me

I like to look at you  
asleep on your side, face  
cradled by down soft pillow.  
I like to read  
you like a poem, slowly  
attending to the detailed  
lines about the eyes  
slipping under lids, lips  
pursed as if about to kiss.

In this, your nightly cruise,  
you take leave  
from port of day's  
forgotten words meeting  
off course to sail along  
the sea of dark  
through strings of island stars,  
at the masthead bearing on  
toward sun about to be  
uncovered.

I like to see you stir  
when into the small  
cupped petal of your ear,  
my whisper drifts:  
touch me, touch me.  
I like to watch you rise  
as if some foreign tongue  
you once spoke came  
suddenly back to you, watch  
you fix a course across  
the sheeted light onto  
the continent of my body.  
\---andrena zawinski

 

I love it when Jack sleeps over at my place. He never wants to; he is forever grumbling that he has to worry about knocking over some precious artifact or sitting on some important stack of cluttered paperwork and ruining weeks' or even months' worth of my arcane scribblings as he attempts to get comfy on my sofa.

"And I have Tivo at my place," he always whines as a last resort; but sometimes I manage to persuade him to stay over at my place, anyway, coerce him into just going wild and stepping out of his narrow, Jack O'Neillian comfort zone long enough to experience a walk on the Daniel Jackson side of the street. Not that I'm trying to accuse him of being a selfish s.o.b. or anything like that; in Jack's case it's more like he's just become a creature of habit to some extent and needs to be...coaxed...sometimes to venture out a bit past his established borders. I know it makes him antsy to stick around my place for any extended length of time, and usually the knowledge doesn't bother me because I'm astute enough to realize that his discomfort isn't so much a reflection on me as it is Jack's own restless nature being aggravated by all the things I've accumulated here in my own space. And since I don't feel a corresponding sense of restlessness or unease at his house, it just makes sense that we would spend the majority of our time together under his roof.

But sometimes I just NEED for him to step into my zone for a bit, need him to breathe the artifact-laden air of MY home, need him to sit on MY damned couch, eat MY food from MY fridge and fuck me senseless in MY bed...because I want him to see, to realize, that these things aren't just MINE anymore--that just as HIS house has become OURS, I want MY place to feel the same. I want this to be HIS place, too, want him to be able to just come over sometimes when I'm NOT here and settle down and feel OKAY about it instead of uncomfortable and ill at ease. I want to share more of who and what I am with him, and I think he's slowly becoming more open to that.

And so I convinced him last night to stay here with me, to let this particular weekend be the weekend of Daniel's Place, not Jack's Abode; and I've discovered to my delight that the change of venue has had the unique and unexpected side effect of turning the both of us on like crazy in the bedroom. The sex last night was incredible, and I realize with some chagrin that it's been awhile since I've seen Jack so passionate, since I've felt so insatiably demanding, myself. Work has been such a bitch lately, the pace so relentless, that I guess the both of us have fallen into a comfortably monotonous rut without even being aware of it. But now it's become more than apparent that we've been settling for mediocrity lately in the lovemaking department and have both been badly in need of injecting renewed passion into our relationship; so when I awoke before him this morn to find him lying like a gift from the gods in my very own bed, I couldn't resist the opportunity to roll over onto one elbow and just study him in absorbed silence for several long, delicious moments, first tracing the contours of his face, then moving on to the planes and curves and angles of his nude body--both the parts revealed to my sight and those still hidden beneath the covers draped across his pelvis.

It wasn't long before my merely aesthetic appreciation of his manly attributes moved on to something much earthier and sexier and I found myself growing impossibly aroused just looking at the peaceful and wholly irresistible Jack banquet laid out before me. And as I gazed into his sleeping face, my mind imagining the first, bemused flickers of conscious awareness sparking to life in his heavy-lidded brown eyes, I imagined as well the touch of his strong, callused fingers ghosting across my chest, down along my stomach and then lower, so much lower, to the raging heat of me that was already growing and straining toward him in the predawn dimness. Touch me, Jack, I wanted to whisper into the shell of his sleeping ear. Touch me. But when Jack slept blissfully on, completely unaware of my growing hunger and frustration, I took matters into my own hands, so to speak, and awoke him through the simple expedient of taking HIS hand and guiding it to my swelling erection.

"Good morning, Jack," I purred when he opened dazed, disoriented eyes in the dimness of my room and wrinkled his brow in momentary confusion as he tried to figure out exactly what it was that throbbed so insistently now in his hand. "Wake up..." And as conscious awareness rushed in to erase the bewilderment in his eyes, Jack's hand tightened relexively on my aching, needy cock and began a slow, instinctive stroking that had me groaning in helpless ecstasy. Silently I squeezed my thighs together, trapping his hand between them as I moved in to press a less-than-minty-fresh kiss to his mouth; seemingly unbothered by my morning breath, Jack returned the kiss and stared at me in the predawn dimness with a strange, almost pensive intensity that almost made me falter in the midst of my seduction routine. But then the expression in his eyes melted into something warm and possessive and infinitely pleased, and the hunger roaring inside me flared to epic proportions as I huskily instructed him to look down at his hand on my cock, to actually witness what it was he did to me with the briefest look, the slightest touch. And the moment he saw for himself, the moment his own power over me registered in his sleep-fuzzed brain, Jack's own libido kicked in full force and he was all over me, impossibly strong and demanding and so goddamned passionate that I knew I wouldn't be able to last long before he wore me completely out. But that was okay--it was better than okay. We had the whole weekend together, here in my place--OUR place, now--and there would be plenty of opportunities for me to wear HIS ass out and leave him begging for mercy.

"I love you, Jack; I love you so fucking much," I whispered against his neck as he collapsed against me, his sweat-soaked hair flinging salty droplets into my eyes. "Be with me, Jack; please, just...be." And Jack lifted his head to show me the quiet acquiescence glowing in his gaze, his fingers moving to gently wipe away the traces of salty moisture gathered at the corners of my eyes. Whether the droplets came from his sweat or my tears, I couldn't say. But it didn't really matter; as Jack pressed a series of slow, calming kisses to my forehead, cheeks, and chin and adjured me in a low, gruffly affectionate growl to go back to sleep for awhile, I relinquished myself, my soul, to his sheltering warmth and drifted away, utterly content with his murmured, "Love you, too" ghosting along the periphery of my fading hearing.

* * *

5\. The Return

When I open my legs to let you seek,  
seek inside me, seeking more, I think  
"What are you looking for?" and feel it will  
be hid from me, whatever it is, still  
or rapidly moving beyond my frequency.  
Then I declare you a mystery  
and stop myself from moving and hold still  
until you can find your orgasm. Peak  
is partly what you look for, and the brink  
you love to come to and return to must  
be part of it, too, thrust, build, the trust  
that brings me, surprised, to a brink of my own...  
I must be blind to something of my own  
you recognize and look for. A diamond  
speaks in a way through its beams, though it's dumb  
to the brilliance it reflects. A gem at the back  
of the cave must tell you, "Yes, you can go back."  
\---molly peacock

 

I wonder if it's possible to die from sensory overload, I think dimly to myself as I lie flat on my back, covered in perspiration and my own drying semen and mesmerized by the sight of Daniel's head between my legs, by the feel of his tongue sliding in and out of the pucker of my sore but still hungry ass as his hands dig into the fleshy globes of my ass cheeks, lifting me at just the right angle for better oral penetration.

"Daniel, you're killing me, here!" I gasp exhaustedly, flinging an arm across my face and biting down hard on my lower lip as wave after wave of almost unbearably erotic sensation ripples through my body. "Jesus, aren't you...aren't you getting even a LITTLE bit...tired?" His only response is a muffled chuckle that hums and tickles along every highly aroused nerve ending in my perineal area, wringing yet another half-pained groan of sexual pleasure from between my clenched teeth. I can feel the rasp of his facial stubble rubbing against me, rubbing me almost raw in spots with a friction that borders on near-orgasmic discomfort; stop, I want to moan, stop while I'll still marginally be able to walk later without my tender bits exploding into flame. But my mind seems to have disconnected itself from my vocal chords, my brain losing the facility for coherent speech as Daniel draws away just long enough to lube himself up and slide right back into me, his rigid cock replacing his tongue and pulling a long, helpless groan of exhausted lust from me as he drives into me, over and over again.

"What...what do you...see...when you're down there?" I hear myself gasp out suddenly as I lift my hands to clutch at his broad shoulders, my hips aching and throbbing and screaming for mercy even as my cock jerks back to erratic life, helplessly aroused once more by Daniel's repeated brushing of my prostate. "I mean...why do you want...to do that? To be...with me...like that? And like this?"

"You're serious, aren't you?" Daniel gasps above me, his face twisting into an intriguing expression of mingled exasperation and genuine interest. "You really want to know, right at this moment, what I see when I have my head between your legs? I'm...I'm assuming this isn't a question about physiology?" And as he grinds into me once more, his breath coming in straining heaves of pleasurable exertion, I capture his curious eyes with my own questioning gaze and nod absently, almost distracted by the indescribable feel of our sweat-slicked bodies rubbing one against the other.

"God, Jack, I want...I really want to answer you...to address your question," Daniel groans as he drops his head into the curve of my neck, his thrusts slowing ruminatively but not halting altogether. "But you see, right now I have a hard-on to beat all previous hard-ons, and the blood flow that SHOULD be going to my brain is pooling elsewhere..." And with a tiny, strangled moan he pushes into me further, tighter, his breath hot and damp and gusting helpless laughter against my throat as my own moan echoes right behind his, my balls drawing up with the compelling need to just let go, to come like Mt. Vesuvius and then drop dead from extreme ejaculation.

"I love you, Jack," he manages to pant as he forces himself to stop thrusting, pinning me to the mattress with his strong thighs as I curse and writhe and strain against him with the agonizing pain of near-release, thwarted. "When I'm down there between your legs giving you a blow job, or when I'm rimming you or fucking you or just kissing the shit out of you...I'm loving you. Loving not only your incredibly body but your mind and soul along with it; you make me happy, Jack. You're so much more than you think you are; you make my life...more."

"More? More WHAT?" I grumble as I slide my hands down to cup his ass, pressing him even closer to me in a frustrated effort to get his attention back on track. Why the hell did I ever START this asinine conversation, anyway? I ask myself as Daniel insinuates an absent hand down between our bodies and takes my poor, sorely abused cock in his grasp, idly playing with it as my eyes cross with the need for him to FINISH, already.

"Er, what?...What were we talking about?...Oh, yes; I only meant that in general you just make my life fuller, more satisfying. MORE. Get it?" And since it seems that he's not about to get busy moving and gyrating again until I telegraph my understanding of his comments, I force myself to nod sagely and realize to my pleasure that hey, I really DO get it.

"You love me," I say now with a really dopey grin playing about the corners of my mouth, and Daniel rolls his eyes at me even as a fond smile settles on his lust-reddened face. "You really love me."

"No shit, Sherlock," Daniel mutters and begins to thrust into me with renewed enthusiasm, his cock so red-hot and merciless and frigging wonderful inside me that I don't even need his hand on me to coax me into the most mind-blowing, body-shattering climax it's ever been my pleasure to experience.

Later, much later, when the bits and pieces of my passion-devastated body begin to knit themselves back together into some semblance of the man I was before I climbed so naively into Daniel's bed, I roll over atop the wadded-up ruin of his sheets to run a lazy hand down his nude torso, my eyes telegraphing a silent, satisfied message of love to him as he gazes back at me with a look of decadent satiation simmering in his own blue gaze. Right now even my hair hurts, but as Daniel gently captures my hand in his and lifts it to his mouth, pressing a chaste, almost unbearably tender kiss to my palm, I can feel that same slow, sinfully precious burn of need and longing I always feel when I'm with him.Hell, who am I kidding, I feel it even when he's not around, I admit to myself with contented equanimity and lean in to kiss him on the mouth, a small groan escaping me as particular portions of my anatomy flare up in protest at even this small movement.

"Daniel," I ponder as he gives me a half-amused, half-sympathetic grin and rather gingerly fingers the love bites I left scattered like exotic tattoos across his chest. "I'm glad--really glad--that you love me with the same single-minded focus and intensity you bring to just about everything you do; I'm both flattered and honored by that. But I gotta tell you; if this keeps up, I'm not sure I'll SURVIVE it."

"Well, we can always head back to your house and watch Tivo and fall asleep on the couch with our bellies full of beer and pizza," Daniel retorts, and I give a snort of disdain and reach out to give him a gentle, open-handed slap to the side of his head.

"What, and give up all the killer sex?" I drawl, then throw up my arms and begin howling for mercy as Daniel falls on me with a downright evil grin lighting up his face, his damnably agile and clever hands reminding me all over again that I am his, his, his, and damned glad of it.


End file.
